


Monsters

by kristopherwrites



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Adultery, Again, Angst, Cheating, Christine can't choose between them, Drama, Erik and Raoul are both garbage in this oof, Everyone Has Issues, F/M, I Tried, Letters, Love Never Dies doesn't happen, Meg is Tired of This, Murder, Nobody Wins, Poor Erik, Romance, Sad Ending, Tragic Romance, Unofficial Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-07-27 04:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16211597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristopherwrites/pseuds/kristopherwrites
Summary: Christine and Raoul are happily married, five years after the infamous affair of The Phantom of the Opera. The media coverage after the macabre mystery of the Opera Ghost only proved to bolster Christine’s career, yet she only felt empty. Her voice was vacant, still beautiful, but lacking the feeling, the soul it once held. She never believed that Erik was really gone, and 5 years later, she finds her intuition to be true, when she receives a letter in that familiar handwriting, a letter signed O.G. and stamped with the scarlet wax seal marked with death’s head.Alternatively, Love Never Dies was disappointing so here’s a real sequel to Phantom of the Opera I'm writing out of my undying(no pun intended) spite for Andrew Lloyd Webber.





	1. A Letter

I stood on of the stage of the Opera Populaire, smiling out over the applauding crowd. Roses littered the stage. But all this applause, it didn’t feel right. I didn’t feel like I deserved it. My voice was good, I hit all the notes, followed what was asked of me, but something just felt off. My voice felt vacant and empty, just as it had for the past five years. Every performance feels like a chore. But, regardless, people still love me, still love my voice, and that’s all that matters, even if my voice doesn’t feel like my own sometimes.

 

“Madame Daae! Madame Daae!” One of the ballet dancers came running up to me just after the show, almost tripping on the train of my dress in the process. She was so small and frail, I was worried she broke something, but sprung up before I could think about it, clutching something in her small hands.

 

“Yes, little Mademoiselle?”

 

“A letter for you, Madame Daae!” She chirped in her high-pitched lilt, small pieces of her jet black hair falling out of her tight bun. The beads on her costume clinked softly as she held out the letter.

 

“Well, little Mademoiselle, I usually don’t take fan mail right after the show-” I started, once again turning from the little deer to go to my dressing-room.

 

“Well, he said it was crucial, Madame Daae, and you must read it at once!” She once again stood in front of me, persistent.

 

“Well, who is it from, little Mademoiselle?”

 

“He didn’t give a name, Madame, and I didn’t see his face either! All he said was that it was an important letter for Christine Daae, from her angel of music! He said that you would know what that meant, Madame,” She thrust the letter into my face once again.

 

Five years. Five years of peace. Of freedom from the clutches of that horrible monster, that demon disguised as an angel, masquerading as _ my _ angel of music. Although his face, his face I could never truly forget, the memory seemed to dim, seemed to almost fade after all this time.

 

But with the letter in her hands, everything comes back in bold, vivid color.

 

The letter, closed with that devilish red seal, brought it all back to the front of my mind.

 

I snatched it from her trembling hands and almost shoved the poor thing out of the way again. She squeaked out a question, and I turned to her for only a moment to respond succinctly. I made sure she did not see the tears brimming in my eyes, threatening to smear my stage makeup.

 

“Is it good news, Madame?”

 

“I’m not sure yet, little Mademoiselle.”

 

I headed to my dressing-room, ignoring the pleas of the managers, as they asked me to speak, to come and greet “my adoring public”. I shut the door and locked it, leaning against it. I sank to the floor as tears fell onto the envelope. I sat on the floor, and stared at the envelope, hesitating to open it. What could he want? I never believed he had died, even though every sensationalized headline at the time had written about the discovery of an unidentified male corpse found floating in the lake under the Opera House a week after his disappearance. I knew he was a master of illusion, and of trapdoors. But, I had felt that he must have left the country, fled to somewhere where his face, his distorted, disfigured face was not recognized as the Opera Ghost. A rumor chattered about backstage by chorus girls turned to reality, who strangled two innocent employees of the Opera Populaire and, most famously, dropped a chandelier on a crowd during a performance. I took a deep breath, and broke the seal on the envelope, sliding the parchment from the envelope and opening it up to see that all-too-familiar handwriting, penned in his trademark ink, red as blood.

 

“ **Dearest Christine,**

 

**Your angel of music has come to you once more. I watched your performance tonight, as I have every other one since my supposed “death”. I see that while I have taught you well, you no longer have the soul, the feeling you once did when you were singing. I assume you have noticed this too? No doubt that critics will soon take note, as well. Could it be perhaps, that you need me, your teacher, your angel, once again? I want to see you as well, Christine. If you come to my private residence, if you could return to me, you could once again “hear as you’ve never heard before”(I believe that’s what you said on the roof years ago with that useless Vicomte) and sing my music of the night. I won’t force you, the choice to return to me is yours, Christine. If you do decide to take my offer, I will meet you in Box 5, after tomorrow’s show. You have until then, my angel.**

 

 

_**\- O.G.** _ ” _ _

 

 

I was silent. There was nothing to say. All I could do was simply stare. Why would he contact me again? Why now, of all times? And the worse thing was, I was considering accepting his offer. But what would Raoul say? He would never let me. After all that we had been through to rid that monster from our lives, to keep the media’s ceaseless questions and speculations of Erik and I’s relationship at bay. I couldn’t just let that go to waste after so many years. A knock sounded on my door, startling me from my depth of thought.

 

“Christine? Darling?” I heard Raoul’s voice through the door, calling out for me. I quickly pulled myself up, dusting off the hem of my dress. I quickly slid out of it, replacing it with a sloppily tied robe. I tried my best wipe off what makeup I could. He knocked again, once again calling my name. I skittered to the door, almost tripping over my feet. I clicked the lock, and he began to open the door, only cracking the door before asking “Are you decent, darling?”

 

“Yes, come right in, Raoul!” I tried my best to sound chipper as I opened the door all the way. He practically barrelled in, carrying an obscenely large and elegant bouquet of flowers. He wrapped me in a hug immediately, almost knocking me off my feet.

 

“You were wonderful, as always, dear,” he murmurs into my hair. He pulls himself from the hug to plant a kiss on my lips. He put his hands on my shoulders, looking at me. “Darling, it seems you missed a spot...well a couple of spots,” he grinned again, cleaning up the bits of makeup I missed in my rushed removal of my stage makeup. “There, all better darling.” He tapped my nose with the tip of his finger.

 

His grin faltered as he saw the tear tracks on my face.

 

         “What is wrong my love?” He held my cheeks in his hands, a look of concern on his face.

 

         “Raoul, I think he's back.”

         “Who's back? What are you talking about, darling?”

 

         “Erik. He wants to see me again, Raoul.” I skittered to my vanity to retrieve the letter, presenting it to my husband. He snatched it from my hands, his eyes growing wider as he read it.

 

         “You, you have to be pulling my leg...you, you  _ can't  _ be serious? Surely this is some sort of joke, right, Christine? Tell me you're just pulling my leg, Christine,” he laughed nervously and his hands trembled as he held onto the letter with a death grip, his knuckles white. I shook my head solemnly. “Could it be a little prank, by the cast or one of your fans? I thought that bastard was dead, they found his body in the lake!”

 

I was taken to that time, 5 years ago, a week after the ordeal. They had called me down to the dungeon, pulling me out of rehearsal. They told they needed me, to identify a body they had found floating in the underground lake. I told them that they would know immediately if it was that monster or not, for his face bore a unique deformation unlike anything I’d ever seen. They didn’t listen and dragged me down there anyway.

 

It took three men to pull the body from the water. I watched, frozen. As they pulled it out, I saw that it was already very decomposed, as if it had been there for about a week or so. They found severe burn scars all over it, including under the charred suit it was wearing. They turned it over, this moment was the reason I had been brought down the basement of the opera during rehearsal. I was still wearing my Hannibal dress, red and green fabric cascading in stripes around me. We had decided to return to performing Hannibal after the events of last week. We kept the score for Don Juan Triumphant locked away in an archive, as none of us could bear to hear it again. Carlotta wanted it burned, but the one of the managers, Andre I believe, insisted that, regardless of who penned it, or the events that transpired that night, that it was a beautiful score, putting it in the Opera archives. It was put there so that, as he said, “one day, when all of the terrible thoughts of phantoms and nooses have the left the minds of the owners of this Opera, that others may experience its beauty in its entirety.” It was then Carlotta tendered her resignation, leaving me to officially become the lead Soprano.

 

When they turned him over, I nearly burst into tears. I couldn’t take much more of this. His face was so charred in the fire, that I could barely tell had ever been a face there. There was only bone, and a few stubborn scraps of blackened flesh that the water didn’t wash away. I covered my mouth in shock. The inspector turned to me, questioning me in a rough voice.

 

“Well, Madame? Is this the devil?” I shook my head.

 

“I-I don’t know Monsieur,” I said honestly, choking on the stench of rotting, burnt flesh and my own tears. He shook his head, turning to Monsieur Firmin, the other manager.

 

“There was nobody else that could’ve been down here that I know of during the fire, Monsieur,” the manager sighed, seeming resigned and almost a little annoyed that I didn’t respond accordingly. He turned to me.

 

“Well, I suppose that will be all we need from you, Madame Daae. You may return to rehearsal,” He rolled his eyes and dismissed me with a wave of his hand. I thanked him quickly and was led by an escort back up to the stage. By the time I came home to Raoul that night, he wrapped me in a hug as soon as I came home, rejoicing. He told me that the evening paper had said that they had found the body of the Phantom, deep below the Opera house.

 

“We’re free,” he said. I decided not to tell him what happened during my brief trip to the cellars. I wanted to let him believe that that unidentifiable mangled corpse was indeed the monster, the deformed devil which had threatened his life. I knew he would rest easier that way.

 

“I know him, Raoul. I know he wouldn’t just go down like that. And no one except those of us who were unfortunate enough to receive a letter from him could possibly know his handwriting. I doubt that any of them want to relive the ordeal he put us through 5 years ago.”

 

“Well, we must catch him this time! You, you can go to “meet” him after the show tomorrow, and we can capture this demon for sure this time!” He schemed.

 

“No, Raoul! I’m not being used as a pawn, not after what happened last time!” I pleaded, staring into his eyes, and I could see he was almost to the point of crying too. He was scared, just as scared as I was. After all, Erik would never harm me. But Raoul, Raoul was a different story. He had tried to kill him, used Raoul’s life as a bargaining chip to force me into an unholy matrimony with him. I have no doubt that Erik, if he found himself in the position again, would not grant Raoul even the smallest chance of survival again.

 

“Al-alright, but we must think of a plan, darling! You cannot fall once more into his clutches, Christine!” He said ominously, holding my wrists. “You must not go to meet him tomorrow night. Promise me that, Christine.” He leaned close to me as he said this.

 

“I-I wouldn’t dream of it, darling.” I stuttered out.


	2. A Meeting With Meg

“Meg! Meg do you have a moment?” I ran through the door to the ballet chorus’ practice room, up to the now-head dance instructor and still my best friend, Meg Giry. She had taken on her mother’s job as leader of the ballet chorus so her poor mother could finally retire. I saw about 20 young, stick-thin girls, including the one who had given me the letter which I now held in my hands last night. They were all dressed in all white, with stiff tutus and hair up in tight, high buns. They all chattered and giggled excessively, and I heard little shouts of “Madame Daae! Madame Daae!” I waved sheepishly at the girls and I looked over to Meg Giry, dressed in a soft pale green dress, smiling warmly at her dancers. She looked over to me and grinned.

 

“I always have time for you, Christine! Girls, go ahead and rest for a moment,” she tapped her cane on the ground, as her mother did to adjourn the girls- “I’m sure this won’t take too long!”

 

“Well, what do you need?” She asked gently. I looked into her eyes, taking a deep breath before handing her the letter. “What is this, Christine?” She took it tentatively, opening the parchment. She read over the letter, her eyes growing wide. Finally, she looked up at me.

 

“Is...is this some kind of joke? It has to be, right?” She laughed nervously, putting her hand on my shoulder. I shook my head. “But...he’s gone. I went to his lair. I found it empty, his mask was the only in there. They found a body in the lake a week later. It was him, everyone said it was…”

 

“He wouldn’t get away that easy,” I sighed. “I need your advice, Meg,” I asked, “Should I go to meet him tonight?”

 

“Of course not! That monster is still the same as he was all those years ago, trying to find his way into your mind, to ensnare your voice, Christine.”

 

“Well, what if I  _ want  _ to see him again, Meg?”

 

“What?” She looked at me like I was crazy. “May I remind you, that he murdered people, and that  _ your husband _ was almost one of his victims?”

 

“I know, I know, it sounds insane, but-” I took a deep breath, “I haven’t felt the same since he left. My voice doesn’t feel the same. It feels unfeeling and flat.”

 

“Well, I’ve heard none of that, Christine!” She attempted to reassure me.

 

“But Meg,  _ I’ve _ heard it.  _ He  _ hears it, Meg. The joy, the relish I once felt in my singing is gone. I’ve tried several other tutors, but nobody made me feel as he did, sing as I did with him. I’m not sure what to do,” I collapsed into her arms, weeping. She hugged me, whispering “ _ there, there _ ” softly to me.

 

“Christine, I didn’t know you felt like this, you should’ve told me, darling,” She sounded choked up too, hugging me closer. The ballet chorus looked on with sad sighs and their chatter reduced to close whispers. She pulled away, tears shining on her cheeks as she looked at me with a sweet smile.

 

“Do what you think is right, Christine.”


	3. A Reunion

I looked out once more over the auditorium, dodging a bouquet of roses that nearly hit me. Thundering applause once again.  _ Undeserved _ thundering applause. I smiled, waving at the adoring crowd. Internally, I was panicked. I’m still not sure of my decision. Do I disobey my husband and sing once more with that devil, or do I stay by his side, truthfully, and lead an unfulfilling career, with a facade that threatened to fall away at every moment? The time has almost come for my choice, and yet I had not made up my mind. My heart felt as if it was going to rip in half. It was beating so fast. It was all too much. Suddenly, my head was spinning. Suddenly, the ground was speeding towards my face at an alarming rate. Suddenly, everything was black.

 

           There was darkness, pure pitch-black darkness. But, in the darkness, the most beautiful, most pure music I had ever heard, drawing me to it. I felt myself wandering, walking, and then running, sprinting toward it, as if it was the only thing I needed, all I needed to live. It was a familiar voice in the darkness, but I couldn’t place it, but the title was on the tip of my tongue. I could feel myself getting out of breath but I didn’t care. I needed that music, wherever it was coming from. Yet, as I kept running towards it, the music seemed to only be getting farther away. I couldn’t run anymore, I could only stand there, crying out as the music got farther and farther away. I stood there, crying, “Angel!”

 

           “Christine? Christine?” As I came to, I cracked open my eyes and saw Raoul looking over me with a look of concern on his face. He smiled with relief as he saw me waking up.

 

           “Christine darling! Are you alright?” He said as he brushed my hair from my face. “Do you need anything? Some water? Some food?” He chattered nervously. I couldn’t focus on what he was saying. I was too busy thinking about that dream, what it could have meant.

 

And then it  _ clicked _ .

 

It was my Angel of Music, that true Angel of  _ Death _ , calling me again. It was destiny. Somehow, my subconscious had already made the decision. I couldn’t let my opportunity to find meaning in my voice, in my music again just pass me by. But how to get to Box 5? Surely Raoul would not allow me to go, so I had to think fast.

 

“Darling,” my voice cracked as I spoke. He turned to me immediately, resting his hand on mine.

 

“What is it, Christine?”

 

“I wish to be alone, Raoul. Just for a few hours so I may give my mind and my ringing ears a rest.” I lied convincingly enough. He nodded with compassionate understanding.

 

“Well then I shall leave you to rest darling.” He stood up and straightened his jacket. “I’ll be waiting at home. I’ll send our carriage back here when I have arrived, so it shall be waiting for you, my Angel-” He cringed at that nickname. “My love,” he seemed satisfied with his choice of pet name, before bending to kiss me on the forehead, and exiting, shutting the door behind him.

 

I sat up, realizing I was still in my dress from tonight. I carefully changed out of it. I opted for something more suited for traveling. The dress wasn’t incredibly detailed, but was a beautiful shade of violet. I looked at the clock and saw it was only 10:30, so I hadn’t been out for more than half an hour. I rushed to get my makeup off, and when I heard no voices behind my door, I cautiously stepped out. I looked both ways down the hall, and saw no one. I began to slip down the twisting halls, looking carefully for any signs of life. Luckily most people were closer to the stage still, tired and excited to take off their costumes.

 

“Where are you going, Madame Daae?” I froze, and turned to see the same little ballet dancer which had handed me that cursed letter, who had started all of this turmoil.

 

“U-um,w-well little Mademoiselle, I’m going to see an old...friend,” I hesitated on the last word, as I wasn’t quite sure how to describe the relationship I had with Erik. She looked at me with a smirk, as if she knew exactly what I meant.

 

“Are you going to see that Angel, Madame? The one that gave you the letter?” Her eyes lit up at this idea.

 

“Y-yes,” She gasped melodramatically, and I shushed her. “But you mustn’t tell anyone, little Mademoiselle!” I pleaded awkwardly. She mimed locking her mouth and throwing away the key.

 

“Thank you, little Mademoiselle” I was grateful for her excitement in keeping a secret for me.

 

Eventually, I slid out to where the box-keepers go up the stairs to tend the boxes. On this side, it was all odd numbers. I snuck past the staircases to boxes 1 and 3, and arrived at the door labeled “Box 5” in fading gold script. Over it you could see a crude drawing of a skull, probably drawn by some immature stagehand, clearly smeared as if someone had been wiping at it was a coat sleeve or something of that sort. The door creaked softly as I opened it. I began my ascent of the stairs, shutting the door behind me. As I ascended, I began to panic. What if Raoul had alerted the authorities? What if they caught Erik already, and I come up there to Raoul, standing, disappointed in me, and Erik in handcuffs? I pushed those thoughts from my mind and continued up the stairs. I finally arrived at the curtain and pushed it back shyly.

 

Somehow, he had not changed at all. He still looked exactly as he did 5 years ago, as he had appeared in my mirror. His velvety black cape draping behind him, his white mask pristine and defined. He stood waiting expectantly. As soon as his eyes fell upon my small form, he wrapped me in a hug, which was not something I was expecting. I swore I heard a muffled sob from him. I could not blame him though, as I found myself fighting back tears as well. He pulled away from me, a grin across his face.

 

“My Christine,” his clear baritone voice cracked with emotion, barely above a whisper. I sighed, also beginning to cry. He quickly withdrew a handkerchief from his coat, handing it to me to dry my tears, even though he looked as if he was about to cry too. “I didn’t think you would show, I-”

 

“Oh, Erik, shut your mouth,” the words left my mouth before I realized what I was saying, and I was pulling his head down to kiss him before I realized what I was doing. His hand threaded into my curly brown hair as he kissed me back. He broke the kiss, and in his eyes, I saw pure adoration. He brushed his gloved hand against my cheek.

 

I missed you so much,” he murmured. He put my hand in his. “Now, we must go. I can’t risk anyone one seeing us together,” he sighed softly again, looking at me as we turned to leave. “my Angel of Music.” I felt myself captivated by him again. I barely took notice of where we were headed as we exited the box, heading down the steep staircase.

 

         He was an expert at sneaking around the Opera House after living there in secret for years. He moved silently, and he seemed to concentrate, as if he was following his own map in his mind. He led me down corridors and through parts of the Opera House I didn't even know existed, and before I knew it we stepped out into the cold night air.

 

        “Are you too cold, Angel?” He turned to me and asked with concern gracing his uncovered perfect features, his breath making clouds in the winter night. I shook my head. He turned away then, and led me to his carriage. It was as I expected, dark and ornate with black curtains covering the windows on every side, drawn by two sleek black horses. The door creaked open almost ominously, and I saw a dimly lit velvet-lined interior. He held the door for me, and held my hand as I stepped into the coach. He entered as well, shutting the door behind me, letting it click into place. Soon after, the coach began moving, pulled by a hooded figure who had been sitting on the bench on the front. There was one small oil lamp in the corner of the coach, and left us bathed in soft amber light, now deprived of the cool light of the street, the streetlights and the full moon blotted out by the deceivingly thick curtains.

 

I now felt guilt and worry set in. What had I done? Raoul would surely know of my deception by morning, and know who was behind it. He wouldn’t rest until he had Erik’s head on a platter, and he’d never trust me again. As much as I love him, I know he’d never understand my voice like Erik did. He still complimented me, he told me my voice was “divine” and “perfect” every night, but to me, it was anything but. It was grating, unfeeling and I couldn’t bear to hear myself. 

 

My voice  _ had _ felt the way Raoul described it all those years ago, in the cellars of the Opera. It flowed freely, Erik’s music brought out notes I didn’t even know I could sing, his music was pure emotion. During the moments I lead in his  _ Don Juan _ , I no longer felt like an automaton, I felt human, I felt  _ real.  _ But that was never important. The managers never cared, the vocal instructors in the Opera never thought to pick up on it.

 

That was what I had learned about the Opera. They don’t really care about you. They just see you as a pawn, a puppet made to sing whatever they give you, hit the notes in the right order. Nobody cares if you enjoy it. Just meet the criteria and you get paid. But I never cared about the money. All I wanted was to do what I love, to the best of my ability.

 

“Are you alright?” Erik questioned, turning my head to look at him. He was interesting, it was almost as if I spent enough time looking at him, talking to him, I almost forgot that this man was a  _ monster _ . No matter how much I try to not notice it, or push thoughts to the back of my mind, I’m still reminded that this man has several people’s blood on his hands. I remember his face, so distorted and deformed, unlike nothing I had seen, even in circus freakshows. But all of that almost seemed to disappear as I looked into his eyes. They were a clear, emerald green, almost uncannily bright. They were alluring, hypnotizing in a way I can’t quite describe. In them, I saw nothing but adoration and care, as if it would pain him if I so much as tripped on my skirt. 

 

Behind them, though, was cold, calculated, fear. He was raised to trust no one, and fear what he wasn’t strong enough to hate. It was a tortuous existence, living his life relegated to shadow, to taking up the guise of a Phantom, a vengeful spirit for the sake of self-preservation.

 

“Of course, Erik. I am just worried about Raoul-” I started, but he shushed me at the mention of my husband’s name.

 

“You needn’t worry about the Vicomte, Christine. I am with you, and all you must think about is music,” he pulled me closer to him. He drew the curtains on one side of the coach, letting clear moonlight flood the chamber. He looked up at the moon, his voice starting softly, barely above a whisper, before his volume rose and he was singing at full volume. I was compelled to join him, and before I knew it, there we were again, our voices intertwining in a strange, vehement duet. Dashing lyrics about true love and moonlight laced with metaphor left his mouth, and I found myself singing of fear and of fate and destiny. My voice was clear and melodic, it felt  _ right _ . For the first time in five years, my voice was pristine and passionate. I reveled in the feeling. At last, he turned to me, one shared lyric sang between both of us at the same time.

 

“ _ Fate links thee to me, forever and a day. _ ”

 

The lyric was stolen, but one we both knew well, from the Wedding Song of Romeo and Juliet. Repeated, three times, our faces getting closer and closer, until our lips met again. He smiled softly at me, his hand brushing my cheek again, and he looked as if he was remembering my pale face in the moonlight, trying to imprint this moment into his mind and memory forever. 

 

The coach drew to a halt. I’m not sure how long the ride was, I was not paying attention to the passing of time during our impromptu duet. He opened the door, and helping me out into the winter night air. I saw the lights of Paris far in the distance, through the snow that had begun to fall. I looked out in front of me to see a wide paved path, leading uphill to a large, dark ornate house on a hill. It was almost akin to a castle, with its dark gothic architecture and imposing stature. Erik took my hand led me up the hill, not allowing me to admire the house from a distance for long. I was led up to the porch where he let go of my hand to withdraw a single key from his coat, turning it the lock on the grand door, before opening it and holding the door for me. 

 

The house was grand inside, as well, furnished with an obscene amount of candles, and a large pipe organ in the middle of the first floor, not unlike the one he had in his lair before it burned. Paper littered the floor, some crumpled and ripped, others simply tossed aside. Several of the walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with tons of leather-bound tomes. Some classics, other more modern pieces, and books full of Opera scores, above all else. While I observed the luscious interior, he had removed his cape and coat. He slunk to the organ, beckoning me to follow. He sat at the organ, and I accompanied him on the bench. He began to play, and I recognized the piece immediately. It was from his  _ Don Juan,  _ I recognized it from the first note. It was the song we had sung together, as he masqueraded as the lead. His voice was clear and strong, hypnotizing me in a way I couldn't help but almost fall into his arms. 

 

He played long into the night. Our voices entwined in the notes, with lyrics so grim about death and loss, to lyrics as full of brevity about the magic of true love’s kiss.

 

True love. What did I know about it? True love was supposed to be  _ the one _ . No others. And yet, I found my heart taken by two. I was torn between my music, the angel that had given my life meaning all those years ago, or my husband, who loved me so dearly he was willing to lay down his life to keep me safe, who supported me tirelessly. However, had it not been for Erik, I never would have met Raoul again, he would never have heard my voice, never would have recognized me. In a way, I owed Erik. I owed him my heart, as well as my fame and my voice. And I don’t doubt that he knows this. He knows that I’ll fall right into the palm of his hand, I’m here at his beck and call. This meeting was evidence that his power over me was undiminished. Even subconsciously, I knew, my heart, my soul, and my voice belonged to him, in the end.

 

I sat there, drowning in the passion of our reunion, for hours. Finally, when I couldn’t bear to keep my eyes open, my voice fading, I could feel my body being lifted into his arms, being carried up the spiraling stairs onto the second floor of the home, I hear a door creaking, I feel silk sheets pulled up over me, and his lips against my cheek one last time before I finally succumb to rest.

 

My dreams that night were of painful flashbacks. I saw Erik, the  _ real _ Erik, not the one manufactured by his influence. The Erik which had laughed in the face of my fiance begging for mercy, his disfigured face contorting in twisted mirth. His booming uncontrollable laughter as he watched the chandelier come crashing down upon the heads of innocent Opera-goers, dropped out of jealousy, out of contempt for the fact that I dared to pledge my heart to someone else. It seemed my unreliable subconscious was attempting to recant its statement, on the need of the Angel of Music in my life. But it was too late. I was smitten by him again, lost in my voice, my music, my first love.


	4. A Return

I awoke the next morning rather early, I couldn’t have gotten more than two hours of sleep, and Erik quickly explained to me that I needed to get home as soon as possible, so people did not know that I had left. I nodded in understanding, tugged by his hand from the messy soft pink sheets on the bed. 

 

I scanned the room, as I had not gotten a look at it with my thoughts last night drenched in hazy exhaustion. It looked as if he had designed it for me to stay in it. It was light compared to the rest of the house, which was a repeating canvas of wine reds and blacks. The sheets on the dark oak bed were a powder pink, which was complemented by the cream walls, and almost every surface of the dark oak furniture was covered with bouquets and vases filled to the brim with gorgeous flowers in every shade. It seemed to be the only room in the house with a window that wasn’t covered with dark velveteen curtains blocking out all light, as I was bathed in the blue-violet light of a winter dawn.

 

As we rode back, I watched the trees along the road through the window of the coach, twisted and dark, dusted with snow, their dark trunks stark against the unforgiving grey of a winter sunrise. They almost turned to mock me, remind me of the guilt I was supposed to feel after this meeting, remind me that I was meant to fear, to loathe the monster, the  _ Angel of Death _ , seated next to me. And yet, as he smiled and hummed, busying himself with the pouring me a drink, the guilt, the fear and loathing didn’t seem to come. I only thought that I was going to miss him, and of how I anticipated our next meeting.

 

“Where do you wish to return to, my Angel?” He asked softly, handing me a glass of water that I had asked for shyly.

 

“Just back to the Opera,” I stated absentmindedly, still looking out at the bleak landscape of the French countryside. I took the glass from him, sipping gratefully.

 

“Of course,” he said, but I almost didn’t hear it as I drifted off quite suddenly, leaning on his shoulder. I felt him grab the crystal glass from my hands, making sure it didn’t fall and shatter. He pets my rather unkempt hair with a touch as soft and delicate as the snowflakes that continued to fall outside as I once again fell into slumber. But before I could begin to dream, I felt the coach come to another halt. I cracked my eyes open and lifted myself from Erik’s side, his arm falling from its spot around my shoulder. I still never seemed to be sure how long that ride was. He once again lent me his hand, in the muted light of early morning. He led me back through to the back entrance of the Opera, once again maneuvering through the huge building easily, as if he never left.

 

We stopped once we arrived at my dressing room. He turned to me again, his face melancholic.

 

“Christine, I love you,” he said softly before kissing me, and I leaned in to kiss him back. It was soft and chaste, only lasting a moment before he pulled away from me. “I hope you’ll return to my home soon, my Angel. Now I must go, as I must not be seen here,” He turned on his heel, stalking out with his cape fluttering behind him. I watched him with a wistful smile before he turned a corner, leaving me alone in the empty hallway of the Opera house, which had yet to come to life because of how early it seemed to be. I stepped carefully into my dressing room, cringing as the door creaked. I prayed it didn’t wake up anyone staying in the next rooms. I turned the key in the door until the lock clicked, and then laid down on the fainting couch near my vanity. I quickly changed into the spare dressing gown that I kept in my wardrobe, before settling in to fall asleep, hopefully for longer this time.

 

Unfortunately, I seemed to have no such luck as I awoke what couldn’t have been more than a few hours later by a pounding on my door. Indeed, after falling asleep it almost seemed as if the meeting last night had been nothing but a dream, an almost perfect dream. I stood and stretched, slipping a robe over my dressing gown and yawning, trying to wipe the sleepy bleariness from my eyes.

 

“Christine? Christine, are you in there?” I heard Raoul’s voice from the other side of the door, accompanied by more pounding. I rushed to unlock the door, letting in my fretful husband, who wrapped me in a hug immediately. “Oh, Christine, I was so worried! I thought he had taken you again when you didn’t come home last night! I almost called the police, I worried so much for your safety, darling!” He squeezed me so tight, I thought I was going to choke. Or maybe that was the guilt eating away at me after seeing how he had fretted over me. So, I suppose last night had not been a dream, all of that had been all-too-real. 

 

I felt so shameful as I looked into the eyes of my doting husband. What had he done to deserve this? All he did was care for and support me, and what did I give him in return? Deception, lies and broken promises.  I just kept using him, and I wondered when he would realize it. But all he sees is his childhood sweetheart. Even after 5 years of marriage, he still acted like he was courting me, still full of grand romantic gestures and soft, sweet words whispered to me at night when he thought I was asleep next to him. And yet, I betrayed his trust in the greatest form last night. I had gone back to the man which had threatened his life and even kissed him. If he ever found out, I’m not sure what it would do to his poor loving soul.

 

“I’m so sorry Raoul! Can you forgive me?” I began to sob, catching him off guard. He held me close, patting my back to comfort me.

 

“It’s alright darling, you needn’t worry my love. I forgive you. It was a simple mistake sweetheart. There, there, it’s alright my love,” He spoke softly, reassuring me. Of course, he thought I was just a little on edge after fainting on stage and sleeping in my dressing room, and he wouldn’t know the reason I really felt as guilty as I did, the reason I sobbed so fervently into his arms. 


	5. A Discovery

It continued like this for a while, much longer than it should have. I lied carefully to get Raoul to leave me at the Opera, which became easier as he seemed inclined to believe that the letter had been nothing but a lie, some little prank. He let it fade from his mind, no longer questioning why I seemed to spend so many nights sleeping at the Opera House. But at night, I found myself in Erik’s arms. I sang confidently, both on the stage of the Opera and at his side. I felt like I had been revitalized. New life flowed through me and my craft through his music.

 

But, things such as this arrangement could only last for so long.

 

Erik wanted to see me more and more, and I kept obliging him. Soon, I barely spent any nights next to my husband. I took to sleeping with Erik much more often. No matter how guilty I felt, the sensations he filled my senses with during those nights under the sheets together were impossible to ignore. But of course, Raoul seemed to become more and more suspicious of my actions. Meg seemed worried too. Because of the constant back and forth journeys between Erik’s home and the Opera, I was losing copious amounts of sleep. I seemed to be dozing off during practice much more often, the dark bags under my eyes much too apparent. This duplicitous life was straining my body to its limits, and almost everyone could tell.

 

“Christine?” I heard a knocking on the door of my dressing room one evening, while I was getting ready, accompanied by a soft voice recognized I immediately recognized to belong to none other than Meg Giry. I stood up, stretching and yawning as I had almost fallen asleep while applying my makeup.

 

“Coming!” I shouted lightly, running up to the door and opening it to reveal my best friend, just as I had suspected, waiting for me. There were vermillion ribbons braided into her long blonde hair, which matched nicely with her dress. A small figure hid behind her. I recognized her as the little ballet dancer who had given me that letter, and who I had trusted to not tell of my first secret meeting with Erik. “What is it, Meg?” I asked tentatively, closing the door behind her and the small dancer. They headed into my dressing room, Meg settling herself on the fainting couch, which I often found myself sleeping on in the early hours of the morning. The dancer curtsied carefully, looking around my room with wide doe eyes. She looked anxious, almost scared, as she made eye contact with me.

 

“Well, Christine, little Jammes here told me she saw you doing something very suspicious, some weeks ago,” she sighed, putting her hand on Jammes’ shoulder, and she almost flinched, her large eyes darting around the room, looking for something, anything to look at other than me. “She said that she saw you trying to sneak out in the direction of the odd-numbered boxes, after you told Raoul you needed to ‘rest’,” she crossed her arms. “So, where have you been disappearing to-,” 

 

Jammes suddenly burst into tears, little tear tracks staining her porcelain cheeks, she ran to me, sobbing. I carefully tried to hug her, put my arms around her frail body.

 

“I-I’m sorry, Madame Daae! I wish I could keep secrets better! I was telling Yvette about what happened because I simply couldn’t contain myself! I didn’t mean for Madame Giry to overhear me! I’m so sorry!” She babbled, sniffling and hiccuping in between words.

 

“It’s alright, darling, don’t worry,” I tried to comfort her as best I could, careful to not mess up her carefully styled hair. Meg walked up to her.

 

“I’m sorry for stressing you, Jammes, you didn’t do anything wrong, dear,” Meg patted her, pulling her from her vice grip around me. “Why don’t you head on back to costuming?” her features softened, speaking carefully to the fragile girl. She nodded, wiping her teary eyes with her petite hands and leaving. Meg sighed and sat back down. “Poor girl,” she sighed softly. She turned back to me again as I began to busy myself with my makeup again. “Don’t think you’ve escaped discussing this with me,” she stated and I glanced over at her.

 

“Discussing what?” I feigned ignorance, continuing with trying to get my eyeliner to look the same on both sides.

 

“You know what,” she said matter-of-factly, “I know where you’ve been disappearing to, what you’ve been doing during the night, why you’re always so tired lately,” she stopped for a beat, waiting for some tearful confession from me, which didn’t come, not yet at least, “you’re seeing Erik.” No response from me. I hoped that by ignoring her, I wouldn’t have to discuss my deception. I didn’t want to. I hoped that in some odd wrap-around way, that by not telling anyone, by not admitting it out loud, it wasn’t real. That I was still faithful, that all of those entrancing nights were nothing but delirious dreams.

 

“Christine, answer me.”

 

“Christine, you know you can trust me, I just want to speak to you about it.”

 

“Christine, this is a dangerous game you’re playing.”

 

She continued for a few more minutes, attempting to ‘warn’ me. But it was too late. No warning could save me from this double life. Even if it destroyed me, I needed to see him. I needed to feel the way he made me feel, I was addicted to it. It didn’t matter what else happened, as long as I was still with him, as long I could still hear his voice, nothing else mattered. After being deprived of this feeling for so many years, I didn’t want to let it go again. He had drawn me in again, past the point of no return.

 

Finally, she got up and left, with one last comment.

 

“Just, think of what it’s going to do to the Vicomte when he finds out, Christine.”


	6. A Plan

          And sure enough, he did.

 

It didn’t happen the cliche way you’d expect. He didn’t burst into Erik’s home throwing open the door snorting like a bull, while Erik and I looked on in fear while locked in a passionate embrace. No, it was because I had left a small scrap of paper out by accident, which had found its way into his hands. If that hadn’t have happened, this ending would be so very different.

 

I had been planning on leaving him. I had come to Erik to tell him that we couldn’t go on like this, that even though he was entrancing and fascinating, and the greatest teacher I had had the misfortune of meeting, I knew who he was under the mask. That really, all of this was an illusion, and that I couldn’t see him anymore. I had left with a small list of things to bring with me the next night written in vermillion script. A hastily scrawled note at the bottom instructed me to throw away my wedding ring. I had planned on following through with this plan. I didn’t have any choice. I had decided.

 

I had begun packing that night, carefully checking the list and putting each item in my large bag silently. I hoped that Raoul, who was attempting to play the piano in the next room, would not hear suspicious sounds coming from our bedroom. As soon as the bag was packed, I slid it into a forgotten corner of our closet, somewhere he wouldn’t find it. I then sat on the bed in my dressing gown, the silky gossamer fabric wrinkling under the sheets as I pulled out my book and began to read, waiting patiently for Raoul’s banging on the ivory keys of the grand piano in the drawing room which permeated the whole house to cease. 

 

I eventually dozed off, eventually blocking out the noise by becoming increasingly engrossed in my book. I was awoken by a tapping on my shoulder. Raoul was standing over me, his soft golden blonde hair and perfect features illuminated flatteringly by the oil lamp on my nightstand.

 

“Darling?” he asked with eerie calm, his fists clenching a small scrap of paper.

 

“What is it, Raoul?” I murmured groggily, not registering the bated anger in his tone, or recognizing the paper he was holding in my exhaustion.

 

“What is this?” He asked, once again trying to seem calm even though his voice wavered with cold rage. He pushed the now-wrinkled scrap of paper into my face and I sat up to read it, eye widening as I read it.

 

“R-Raoul, I can explain-” I stammered, before he burst out in rage.

 

“How could do this to me, Christine?! All I do is support you tirelessly, and this is what I get in return?! I think I can trust you, because you care about me, but then you take my trust and go behind my back! You decide to start seeing the  _ monster _ which threatened my life, and almost threatened yours as well! You decided to  _ betray  _ me! He ruined the lives of so many people, and you go running into his arms as soon as he asks!” His face was red, tears streaming down his cheeks as his voice got louder and louder. I could only sit in bed, dumbfounded and guilty. He threw the paper in my face and stormed out, the small piece of parchment fluttering to the ground as the prelude to something much more macabre than a lost temper.

 

“Where are you going with that axe?” I said warily, wandering up to my husband as he stomped out of the house, clutching the aforementioned axe in his right hand. He glared at me with piercing eyes, unbridled rage burning in them. I blinked away tears, pure fear filling the pit of my stomach.

“R-Raoul, what are you doing?”

 

“Taking care of something, darling,” he murmured dismissively, shoving me from his path. “Getting rid of something, a tumor of society.”

 

“No Raoul! You can’t do this!” I grabbed at his arm, tears once again pooling in my eyes. He couldn’t do this. He shoved me away.

  
“Silence! I’m doing this for you, Christine. For  _ us. _ ” He made his way to the door, shutting and locking it behind him, leaving me to watch in cold fear.


	7. A Crime

I flung the balled-up scrap of worn paper at the driver of our coach.

 

“Henri! Take me to the address written on that paper!” I barked, slamming the door of the coach hard behind me. I brushed away the few fat snowflakes which had fallen into my hair, and the coach started moving with a jolt. I didn’t want to wait much longer. I was finally going to get my revenge. After all of these years hiding like a coward, this monster was finally getting what he had had coming for five years. Retribution for his sins. If I killed him, I avenged the lives he took. I keep my wife safe. 

 

He’s all that stands between Christine and I and a life of peace.

 

Christine will thank me, learn to love me for this in time.

 

The coach halted again, and I stepped out into the chilly winter night. I stood before this unsettling monochrome house. It was standing alone, ominously on a hill in the middle of nowhere. It looked dark and run-down. Definitely Erik’s home. I walked up the path with determination. The steps up to the porch creaked as I arrived at the entrance. I began ramming my shoulder against the door, forcing my way into the foreboding house. The door gave way easily, revealing a dim candle-lit interior, not dissimilar to his past home under the Opera House. He sat at the organ but looked at me with shock in his eyes. His hands were still at the keys, but he stood up quickly as I came closer to him, lifting the ax until the blade was about level with my nose. He stepped back, putting one hand up as if to ask me to wait while his other searched desperately for a weapon to defend himself.

 

“Oh, Vicomte, what a pleasant surprise! I had not expected you, rather, I had been expecting your wife tomorrow night,” he smirked, his hands finding purchase on a red noose, whipping it around to my view. He attempted to lasso me with it, but it was caught on the ax, so I cut through it, and by pulling so forcefully, I pulled the monster the ground. I put my foot on his chest like a freshly-killed deer and ripped off his mask.

 

“I want to see your  _ real _ face as the life leaves it.”

 

I brought down the ax onto his head. Blood splattered over the walls, over the organ, over my shirt. I brought down the ax over his skull, again and again, until I couldn’t see that horrible deformity again, until it was a mess of bone and blood on the floor. I’m not sure how long it took, but he was completely unrecognizable by the time I was through. I looked down at my handiwork and took a deep breath before exiting from that accursed house, leaving slowly and meandering, taking time to truly think about what I had done.

 

Maybe Christine was right in trying to leave me. No, that couldn’t be true, this wasn’t a possessive jealousy, it was a safety measure! I couldn’t afford remorse for him, not now, not ever. She’ll realize how great this was for her in time. She’ll have her life back, isn’t that what she wants?

 

I rode back in the coach. When we arrived back at the house, I slipped Henri 5,000 Francs with a bloodstained hand.

 

“Forget what you saw tonight.”


	8. A Conclusion

Christine sat in an armchair, glancing fearfully at the door, sipping tea with shaky hands. Finally, she heard the door’s lock click, and Christine almost jumped out of her seat with a start. The door creaked open as Raoul entered, still carrying the axe. The axe itself was now stained red, as was his once-pristine white shirt. She finally collapsed in tears, as Raoul ran to her side, dropping the axe with a clang. He wrapped her in a tight hug as she sobbed.

 

“He’s gone, Christine. We never have to see him again,” he murmured into her curly brown hair. She sobbed even harder as she pushed him away.

 

“How?! How could you do such a thing? You’re no worse than him!”She yelled, her voice cracking with anguish, tear tracks staining her cheeks.

 

“By ending his life, I’ve saved so many more, including my own!” He defended, his voice full of anger. His cheek was also flecked with blood, as it smeared when he wiped it, staining his sleeve further.

 

“He was only a man! Yet even death, he was treated as a monster! He  _ had  _ changed Raoul, his soul was pure!”

 

“He _killed_ _people_ Christine! He deserved no pity! Only retribution for his sins! He tried to steal you from me again! This, this, _Angel of Death_ has once again wormed his way into your mind, what with all of your secret rendezvous!”

 

“Raoul, you don’t understand!”

 

“I understand plenty, Christine! No matter what you say, no matter what  _ he  _ told you, the fact still remains. He was a monster!” Tears ran down his cheeks again, exposing his guilt and fear, which he had tried to mask with nothing but rage in hopes Christine wouldn’t notice, “He was a monster that tried to take you from me.” He sank to his knees.

 

In that moment, Christine realized something. Erik and Raoul were one and the same. Both cared deeply for her, in their own way, and only wanted to protect her. And their fatal flaw was that it seemed as if neither could live while the other survived. Both people had someone else’s blood on their hands because of their misguided need of protecting her from the other.

 

Now Christine, either way, had ended up living with a monster, only this one didn’t need to wear a mask.


End file.
